Leroux Epilogue, a phantom of the opera fanfic

A/N—Some time ago I promised a couple people that I would accept the challenge of writing a Leroux-based phiction, partially in answer to their comments on my ALW based stories, and partially as a challenge to myself. This is the result. Some of you will notice parts of this rewritten, later on when I post my next chapter of Second Chance, but those parts were written originally for this story. As this is based only on the original novel by Gaston Leroux, I have named the Persian as I wanted.

Please read now, and let me know what you think. I intend this as only a short story; there will be no addendums. Erik is as true to the novel as I can make him, seen through the eyes of my own interpretation. This story is meant to be inserted into the original, between the final two paragraphs, and assumes that the Persian did see Erik one final time, as it is my belief and my hope that the Persian checked on Erik before his final end, and helped Christine to bury the man who had been the Opera Ghost, leaving her time alone with his grave, to say her final adieu.

This was a hard piece for me to write, though I am sure it does not seem so. I hate to think of a man dying alone, under the stones of the Opera House….

~Riene

-Leroux Epilogue-

He huddled into the shadows of Box Five, feeling drawn, hollowed, shrunken. His fingers, thin and brittle as dry bird claws, gripped the ornate chair arm tightly, as though to anchor himself down. He was weightless, falling into the aching beauty of the liquid notes, the glorious harmony of the strings as they began the final descant of the opera.

And then it was over. The swelling applause and cheers jarred unpleasantly with the last lingering notes. Erik opened his eyes and glared venomously at the crowd below, then rose, drawing the warm folds of the cape about his shoulders, and slipped into the shadows behind the column to make his solitary retreat down the damp tunnels, back to his underground lair.

A week, perhaps, or more had passed since he had spoken to the Persian, optimistically assuring him that death was imminent. Like many things in his wretched existence, even the cold comfort of death's waiting arms was denied him.

The looseness of his clothing annoyed him, a rasp against his wasted flesh. His bones felt like a bundle of dry sticks, sheathed in tightly stretched sallow skin. He had not eaten in days. To dine seemed such a futile activity, even before, and now held even less interest for him.

Irritably, Erik pushed away these thoughts and walked to the organ, touching it, stroking its polished wooden side. For so long it had been his outlet, his oppressed soul finding expression in music. But like his voice, the organ too was unresponsive, shrouded and silent in the vast, empty underground room. He turned once more and cast himself down into the throne-like seat in front of the fire and stiffly removed the mask, to stare grimly into the dull red coals, reflecting not for the first time how much easier it would be if one could truly die of a broken heart. The flames assumed shape, gained substance to his tired eyes, and once again, he seemed to see her, bent over him, through the haze of pain and grief, an angel in the blurred red-black darkness. It seemed he could feel the softness of her small white hands against the back of his aching skull, gentle fingers touching his hideous face, her soft voice speaking words of pity, of compassion, the sudden comprehension in her dark blue eyes.

Furiously, Erik shook his head. He had not been sane, then. Sanity had been granted to him on a cold slab of marble. Christine was gone, beyond his reach, far away with her lover. He had made the only choice possible, to spare her a lifetime of horror. He had not truly known, until that moment, what it was to love someone. He had wanted her, yes, wanted her for himself, to sing for him, to protect and nurture, to purchase lovely baubles for, to be his wife. But until that painful, blinding moment of clarity, he had not really known what it meant to love someone, to want their happiness beyond your own…

Tired of the endless downward spiral of these thoughts, he rose, pacing the underground house. Silence weighed down upon him, the oppressive weight of the stones above, the weight of his tomb.

Alone with thoughts of death, the man who had been the Opera Ghost buried his face in his hands.

Silent, sure-footed, and himself as dark as the shadows around him, the man stepped carefully around the slick stone wall, where the jagged outcropping of real rock abutted the shaped stone of the foundations. Down in the catacombs beneath the Opera lay several old twisting tunnels, carved by the natural erosive action of moving water and by the hand of workmen, laboring for the Commune or for the architect whose designs had created this immense building. The Persian removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and fastidiously wiped the moisture from his fingers. One of these tunnels led to the underground house. He did not clearly remember which one—indeed the events of that harrowing time with the young Viscount had become blurred in his memory, the effect of a near brush with death. Dâvari was, however, a man who had survived the treacheries of the Persian court and the dangers of the criminal underworld for most of his adult life. Stooping low, he noted the dark mark along the outermost stone of the second tunnel. With the faintest trace of a satisfied smile he set off into the maze.

The sound of the wooden door scraping against the stone floor alerted him to a visitor, and Erik rose abruptly, for one minute hope flaring in his heart that she had somehow returned. His visitor came quietly into the room, walking with caution, for his recent experiences had taught him these days Erik, though broken, walked between madness and misery.

"I see you still live, my old enemy," the Persian said simply.

The man opposite of him had changed, even with in the last few days. He turned his head, the menacing, hypnotizing slow motion of the predator, his black eyes glowing golden, reflecting the light of the gas jet. He seemed smaller, diminished, but the sudden blaze of ire from his eyes was as of old.

Erik gestured at the settee. "Sit down, Daroga, make yourself comfortable. Might I get you something? A glass of water, perhaps? I know you do not drink," he smirked.

The Persian nodded, accepting the hospitality of one's host was still deeply ingrained into his psyche. He took the proffered glass, and arranged himself comfortably on the carved mahogany chair by the small round waxed table, now furred with dust.

"Why are you here, Daroga," the ghost said acidly. "Do you to come to gawk, to see me in my misery?"

"No, Erik. I have come to check upon you, as in Mazenderan." He watched the other man pace the house, his large, ugly hands reaching out, tracing the line of a chest, a drapery, grasping futilely at the air. "How are you faring?"

The ghost sighed and turned to look at his visitor. "I need to rest, Dâvari. I am so tired. Tired of living, tired of this wretched life underground. My soul is shriveled and empty. Even my music is gone." He gestured toward the organ; dust lay thick upon its surfaces. "I completed my Don Juan Triumphant for her, and now my last reason for remaining on the Earth is gone."

Alarmed, the Persian sat up, his jade-green eyes narrowing. "What are you saying, Erik?"

The man whose presence had filled the Opera House hunched over, clutching at his chest, bent with age and weariness. "I am so damned tired, Daroga! Fifty years I have waited for someone to love me! I gave her my heart—I tore my very heart from my body and gave it to her!"

The Persian shifted quietly in his seat, and sipped from the glass, forming his response slowly. "She did not thrust away your heart, Erik."

"No," he said wearily, "she ran from it, horrified when she saw the truth in my eyes, the madness I cannot escape. She could have saved me, Dâvari . All I ever wanted was to be loved, loved for my own sake, not who they think I am. I would have been as gentle as a lamb, I would have given her the Earth."

"No one has ever cared for me but her, Dâvari. You only tolerate my presence. And no one will remember me when I am gone. No one," he said bitterly. "Do you know what that is like—knowing you will be forgotten more completely in death than you ever were in life? And she will forget me. Her life without me in it will be a blessing." He took a deep breath, and walked slowly to the hearth.

"I cannot sleep…I get no rest. My waking life is a horror, my time of 'rest,'" he sneered, "full of vivid dreams. It is obvious that I do not belong here, in this world. God has never shown me mercy; mankind has not either. It is best that I end it all, Daroga. Yet, I am such a coward, I cannot find the strength to do it."

The Persian frowned, watching him narrowly. "It is blasphemy, Erik, to speak of ending your life."

The ghost whirled. "You do not understand, Daroga! I am freezing in this tomb, the silence and darkness is no longer welcome—it is oppressive! I hear her sweet voice in the echoes of these rooms! It is impossible to stop loving someone, just because they are no longer with you! She took my soul with her that night, leaving behind this empty husk-and I...I cannot bear it, any longer."

He collapsed upon the settee, weeping softly, the hideous sounds of a man's overwhelming grief muffled partially by the mask. After a moment, he turned his face away, lifting the concealing fabric from his gruesome features, and Dâvari averted his gaze.

"Leave me, Daroga. Just go," he whispered. "It will not be long now."

The Persian stood, looking down at him with compassion. "Do not do anything foolish, doost man. I will return again in a few days, as per our agreement."

The ghost nodded tiredly, accepting the Persian's words. "She will come for me soon, she is a good girl. Be sure that you come with her, Dâvari." He turned away, whispering. "She is only a woman."

"I swear, Erik. She cannot bury you alone, nor should she." But the man on the settee had no answer, locked in his own grief, and the Persian walked through the foyer of the underground house by the lake, to the welcome light beyond.

Please review, and thank you for reading.

Notes—The language used here is Farsi, the language of Persia, now Iran. I've done my best with it, but please correct me if needed.

Dâvari—"Judgement"

doost man-"my friend"